I’ve been boomswaggled before. Quite a few times, embarrassingly enough. After a while, you begin to recognize that if something smells like shit, it’s probably shit. But this shit smelled like pretty shit. Kind of like that type of shit that doesn’t stink, know where I’m getting? I know, I know… your olfactory begins to parfum-coat those things that you want to objectively believe. Before you know it, shit doesn’t smell like shit, and that vicious cycle begins all over again. As a matter of fact, Jake McGrew, my favorite country artist, just wrote a song about that called “Over and Over.” Anyway, she was a tall blonde, fairly weathered yet still acceptable looking, probably about in her mid-40s. I’ve always wondered why God is so harsh to fair-skinned folks in their forties. Perhaps that’s a karma slap (written and performed by Jake’s illegitimate brother) for all the fun that blondes have in their younger days. Wow — that family has songs for everything! Back on point. Her business suit, rimless glasses, oversized cubic zirconia ring, and Infiniti key dongle meant she was successful in some way — although today, I tend to question the legitimacy of success. Unfortunately, hard work no longer guarantees success in our society. You’ve got to have a slant, and it’s usually not a good one. I am a man of meager resources, and I surely didn’t want to support whatever her habits may be for naught.
She nuzzled up a little too closely when I sat down. I prominently clinked the tungsten band surrounding the third finger of my left hand on the top of my Grey Goose and tonic. Three olives, please. We got to talking, because that’s what bored people do during flight delays. After listening to thirty minutes or so of her bragging about her celebrity conquests, I mentioned that I had recently finished Diary of an Angry Father. Her eyes widened with what appeared to be a legitimate interest. Suddenly, she vocalized her grandiose thoughts of turning my book into a movie. But how could someone possibly recreate all the little situations I’ve lived through? The timeline wouldn’t make sense. She further explained it would be along the lines of Confessions of a Shopaholic, Eat Pray Love, or even Marley and Me. I mentioned an even better book called Mulligan by Olivia Black, but she had never heard of it. They’d write a story around the gist of my experiences, hopefully retaining most of my non-misogynistic sarcasm. She mentioned I would probably retain creative control over the screenplay, but I know that ain’t how it works.
Sure, I saw stars. And dollar signs. And any writer will have to admit it feels kinda cool when someone takes interest in your work. We’ve exchanged a few e-mails since then, but no concrete offers just yet. It could work out, and that might be kind of cool. The pessimist in me is still waiting for the call that will ask me to send someone a five thousand dollar writers fee or retainer to begin the process. I suppose her Infiniti payments are still on time, for now. In the meantime, life goes on. My rusted out car is still running, and they haven’t repossessed my trailer yet. I’ll keep posting additional ditties and thoughts here, on this blog, until there are enough for a book. Enjoy.